


the west was won this way

by bygoneboy



Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Canon, Bittersweet, Blood and Injury, Comfort/Angst, High Chaos (Dishonored), M/M, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-02
Updated: 2016-10-02
Packaged: 2018-08-19 00:44:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8182430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bygoneboy/pseuds/bygoneboy
Summary: “I must say,” he mutters, in the spans of Wallace’s silence, and the quiet rush of the river below. “I am awfully glad Corvo didn’t bother with me. Much more pleasant, this way.”

  “What is?”
“Dying, of course— damn it, Wallace, you are so terribly dim, sometimes.”...lord treavor pendleton spares wallace higgins from meeting the same fate as the rest of the hound pits pub's servants. after pendleton dies, wallace counts backwards, to the hours and days and weeks before.





	

**Author's Note:**

> hugely inspired by [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uBnDXblq5VY)

 

He passes away sometime in the night.

 

Come morning his body is quiet and cold, the difficult rasp of his breath eased into silence, the blood gone dry in stiff patches. There is nothing left to say, and no one to hear him say it. Wallace wraps up the bird-bones of his body in the length of his coat, and brings him up into the early golden touches of the City dawn.

 

…

 

Wrenhaven River is gray, in the late night gloom. “Here,” says Wallace, slowing to a stand-still. “How’s this, m'lord?”

 

“Oh—” Treavor peers out at the outcropping from the brace of Wallace’s arms. The corners of his mouth are stained red. He clucks his tongue, the look in his eyes distant. “A bit muddy,” he says, words coming in faint bursts. “Isn’t it?”

 

“I’ll lay out my coat for you.”

 

“Ah, well…I suppose. That’ll have to do.”

 

Wallace sets him down as gently as he can. Even his best efforts have the man whimpering and writhing; he settles close beside him, heart twisting in a wretched rhythm, and Treavor clutches at his sleeve with a white-knuckled grip.

 

“Damn,” he gasps, once the pain has subsided, “damn it all, I’d rather like— to make it till morning, at least. To see the sun rise. It’s always so— so dark. In this fucking city.”

 

He rests his soft head on Wallace’s shoulder, and turns his face into the warmth of Wallace’s collar. His breath is warm against the pockmarked skin of his throat. “I must say,” he mutters, in the spans of Wallace’s silence, and the quiet rush of the river below. “I am awfully glad Corvo didn’t bother with me. Much more pleasant, this way.”

 

“What is?”

 

“Dying, of course— damn it, Wallace, you are so _terribly_ dim, sometimes.”

 

“You’re not going to die,” replies Wallace, although he knows better.

 

“No? Why not?”

 

“Celia will inherit, if you do.”

 

“ _Drat,”_ Treavor says, smiling against Wallace’s neck, “you’re absolutely right, what a horror that would be.”

 

“And she’ll be sure to replace me, at the Manor.”

 

“The bitch! She wouldn’t dare.”

 

“And,” says Wallace, words sticking to the insides of his throat. “I am— quite dreadfully in love with you.”

 

“I should hope so,” answers Treavor, after a moment, reaching up to stroke at his face with the knuckles of one blood-wet hand. “I would feel ever so foolish if you weren’t— oh, we did make the most of it, didn’t we?”

 

  
…

 

  
He finds him propped up in the ruined, shot-away debris of the old Empiric guardtowers. He’s been shot away, too, that beautiful Tyvian waistcoat Wallace had ordered him last year soaked scarlet, pale face drawn tight in pain. “Come to finish me off?” he rasps, peering into the shadows without much interest. When he coughs, his chest rattles, the way it had when he was a child, with sickly lungs. “Or did all that talk of my whore cousin catch your interest, after all? Not much of a fortune, there, I’m afraid, but if you’re looking for an easy lay—”

 

Wallace steps into the light.

 

Treavor’s eyes brighten, like striking match to flame. “Oh, _Wallace,”_ he exclaims, and sounds positively delighted— as though Wallace has surprised him with a particularly good vintage ale, and not found him sitting in a mess of his own blood. “Wallace, come _here—_ how did you find me? I suppose it doesn’t matter— you absolute oaf, you clever man, I thought I told you to—”

 

His shoulders shake, suddenly, wracked with that awful cough. Still, he stirs as though he is going to try to sit up; Wallace drops to his knees beside him, and takes him by the elbow. “Easy," he says. "Easy, now.”

 

“I— oh, all right—” Treavor sags back, grinning up at Wallace, his skin ashy and pale. “I thought— I told you to stay at the Manor.”

 

“You did,” Wallace agrees, glancing about the room. The place appears to be deserted; the gunshots have seemed to have moved off, now, muffled in the distance, and the roar of the Tallboys has faded to a distant thunder. “Where’s your guard, m’lord?”

 

“Oh, I—” Treavor wheezes again, smile faltering, and Wallace feels the frail set of his chest tremble, the heel of his palm resting flat against his breastbone. “I sent Ren away,” he says, when he catches his breath. “There was nothing he could do, anyway, it seemed a waste to keep him.”

 

 _Nothing he could do._ Wallace’s hand slides down to the edge of Treavor’s coat, drawing it away from his hip; it’s a mess beneath, bullet-shredded fabric. His fingers come away slick with blood. The iron-copper smell floods his nostrils. For a moment his throat closes, the world spins.

 

“Yes, yes,” Treavor says, waspishly, seeing the look on his face and making a weak, half-hearted attempt to swat him away. “It’s all quite the disaster, isn’t it, and look what Martin’s done to my waistcoat, the bastard. My favorite one, this— Tyvian, isn’t it? A pity.”

 

Wallace doesn’t dare speak. His fingers fumble on the clasps, ones he’s undone a hundred times; Treavor hisses as he peels back the fabric, and bares the damage to the cold air. “Oh— hell,” he stammers, dazed, entry-wound, no exit. “Oh, Void above.”

 

“Do shut up, Higgins,” says Treavor. There’s a strain to his voice, as though he is working very hard to appear cheerful and missing the mark by miles. “It won’t do to have you moaning about it.”

 

Wallace moves almost without thinking, his big arms sliding carefully around Treavor’s narrow waist. Even as gentle as he is, Treavor cries out when Wallace shifts to his feet, cradling him to his chest. He’s light. So much frailer than Wallace has ever remembered him, he had used to weigh more, hadn’t he? Before he had begun to substitute meals for tumblers of whiskey, and sleep for empty, guilt-torn insomnia. Sitting on the edge of the mattress in the middle of the night with his head in his hands. Threading their fingers together and kissing Wallace’s palm, when he woke to that too-still silence.

 

“I’ll find a doctor,” says Wallace, thickly.

 

“A _doctor—”_ Treavor laughs, a sweet gurgle. “At last, a sense of humor.”

 

“Piero, then.”

 

“Piero’s dead,” sighs Treavor. “They’re _all_ dead. Except for Martin, I suppose. Bastard. Perhaps we’ll trip on his corpse on the way out,” he says, sounding hopeful. “Havelock’s, too. _Bastards._ ”

 

“Corvo,” says Wallace, desperate. “If I take you to him—”

 

“He’d shoot the both of us, on sight— _really,_ Wallace. Haven’t you been listening?”

 

A sob leaves Wallace’s throat, dry and hurting. They’re only halfway down the crumbling stairs, and the warmth of Treavor’s blood is already soaking hot against his belly.

 

“Dearest Wallace,” murmurs Treavor, fondly. “Oh, Wallace, dear. Just get me out of this fucking hornet’s nest. Take me anywhere but here, darling.”

 

  
…

 

  
Dunwall’s streets are rank with a deathly sort of smell. Wet cobblestone flares beneath Wallace’s boots as the reflection of gunfire and wild electricity lights up the sky. He keeps his head down, his shoulders up, reeling with the unfamiliar rush of adrenaline. A block away there’s a clamor of shouts and screams, then the chorus of heavy footfalls; he hides the bulk of his big body in doorway shadows as a squad of Watch guards stampedes by, swords drawn.

 

Treavor is here, somewhere. It is the only glimmer of hope Wallace holds to, driving at his heels, forcing him on. Sweat sticks to his temples, trickles down the notches of his spine. It’s all coming apart. Everything, crumbling now. Treavor had never mentioned this part of his plan, when he had spoken of restoring the glorious Kaldwin dynasty.

 

But then again, he had not mentioned many things.

 

Or at least not mentioned them, until it was altogether too late.

 

  
…

 

  
Lydia’s eyes are wide and empty, the back of her head musket-shattered. Her brains are soaking into the shoreline mud. Wallace’s heartbeat drums in his ears. “I am sorry,” says the Admiral gravely, reloading with practiced hands. Wallace wonders if he should close his eyes. He wonders what he will see, if he does not.

 

But then Treavor is there, shouting as he hurries into the yard, “Wait!” he calls, his voice cracking horribly. “Wait, wait.”

 

Martin laughs at him, openly mocking, leaning against the workshop brick. “Out of the damn way, Pendleton.”

 

“Please!” Treavor’s arms are spread in meaningless protection, as though Wallace is untouchable as long as he stands between him and the cold muzzle of the gun. “He won’t tell, let him be.”

 

“We’ve discussed this already,” says Havelock, setting his jaw.

 

Treavor’s hands curl into fists, and he sways slightly on his feet. Wallace wonders, in numb panic, whether he’s been drinking. “I’ve— changed my mind.”

 

“It’s too late, Pendleton.”

 

“I’ve given you everything! I sacrificed my brothers for this!”

 

“We’ve all sacrificed something,” Havelock reminds him, weary.

 

“He has served me well—”

 

“Yes, I’m sure he has,” Martin drawls, smirking from the sidelines; Treavor goes red, flushing across the back of his neck. “Come on, Farley,” says Martin, picking lint from his sleeve. “Get it over with. By the Void, it’s a _servant.”_

 

“But he won’t breathe a word! Not to anyone—”

 

“There will be plenty of hirelings once we retake the Tower,” Havelock says, raising the musket again, and Treavor’s voice rings out shrill, and frantic, and the closest to begging Wallace has ever heard him:

 

“Damn it, Havelock, I need him!”

 

Wallace weeps, when it is all over. Stifling sobs into the crook of his master’s thin shoulders, the starched shirt beneath his cheek damp with tears. Treavor allows it for a little while, cooing gentle things, petting at his hair— but soon enough Havelock is calling for him, and he pries himself away. In his absence Cecilia’s screams cling like the stench of the city, and when he dreams it is of nothing but the bubble of blood that had swelled upon Lydia’s slack, half-parted lips, and burst.

 

 _I need him,_ Treavor had said; Wallace is too afraid to ask in what way he had meant it.

 

  
…

 

  
It is a balancing act, what they do. Pretending it has never happened, until it happens again; relieved beyond words that it has happened again, that it continues to happen.

 

He had not used to be so afraid— or perhaps Wallace had simply not been paying enough attention— but by the time Lady Boyle has been declared dead, Treavor has begun to fuck like he is certain that it is the last time, every time. Rutting frantically, trembling with fearful, wide eyes, hearing phantom floorboards creak in the hallway and imaging Overseer swords glinting in the corners of his room. Biting into his pillow to muffle the noises he makes, biting into Wallace’s shoulder, _below the collarbone, nothing can show— be quiet, Wallace, for fuck’s sake!_

 

And of course Wallace is frightened, too. For all that Treavor proclaims to be a coward, Wallace has burned the Strictures into his mind’s-eye.  _Wandering gaze,_ he thinks, watching Treavor’s mouth fix around a bottle of wine. _Wanton flesh,_ he thinks, his head bobbing between Treavor’s slim thighs. It is hopeless, still, to deny himself the pleasure, when Treavor is so often the one asking for it.

 

“No one will question it if you’re seen leaving in the morning,” says Treavor brusquely one night, smoke curling lazily from his cigarette. “Just— say I’ve taken ill, and you’ve been attending me.”

 

He is asking Wallace to stay, in his own sharp, peculiar way. And Wallace agrees, because he has never and will never deny Treavor the things he wants; he isn’t sure he would know how to, even if he wished it. He settles down behind him on the twin-sized bed, one hand running up over Treavor's birdcage ribs, stroking up to the flat of his chest.

 

“I’ll need you to pack my things, tomorrow,” Treavor says, his tone unreadable. “After Corvo retakes the Tower— we will have to move quickly.”

 

Wallace likes to hear him speak on Conspiracy matters. It makes him feel important, included. “Of course.”

 

“And don’t forget the audiograph. I’ve spent far too long on that autobiography to lose it now.”

 

“Of course,” repeats Wallace, kissing at his throat. “I’ll remember.”

 

“Wallace,” says Treavor, sighing around his cigarette. “You’ve…you’ve been very good to me, you know. All these years.”

 

“It’s kind of m’lord to say so,” Wallace answers, burning hot with the praise. It’s all he ever wants to do; he wonders, briefly, whether he should put it into words, make it real. It is painfully obvious in his voice, all the same, when he chances to ask: “Shall I go with you, then? To the Tower?”

 

“You—”

 

Treavor’s voice falters. He sucks hard on the cigarette until it crackles, and glows red.

 

“Yes,” he says at last, throat thick with smoke, “of course,” and that, there, is another Stricture, isn’t it?

 

Lying tongue.

 

  
…

 

  
It takes all of his strength, but Wallace does manage to make it to the Manor bedroom with Treavor’s drunken weight slung about his neck. Treavor himself seems to have gotten a good laugh out of making a game of it, dragging his feet along the long carpeted halls, and clinging stupidly to the staircase railings, all while Wallace struggles vainly to keep the both of them upright.

 

He snickers again as Wallace sits him down on the edge of the bed. His arms are still wound around Wallace’s neck. “Spectacular,” he says happily. “A _spectacular_  holiday, Fugue Fest. What a grand idea.”

 

Wallace crouches down to pluck at his master’s bootlaces. “You say that every year, m’lord.”

 

“Do I?” Treavor slumps back. “Well, good, it’s true. Wallace—”

 

Wallace glances up, and finds him smiling down— the kind of sharp-sweet smile Wallace has come to recognize. The smile he only sees when Treavor is absolutely sloshed, or halfway there at least, the smile that means, _I like you there, between my legs._ The smile that means, _You have me to yourself, now, what do you think about that?_

 

“What would I do without you?” Treavor mumbles.

 

Wallace replies with the bow of his head, the press of his lips to the inside of Treavor’s thigh. Treavor is already hot beneath his hands, and half-hard in his trousers, but when Wallace cups the bulge of his cock in the palm of his hand, he makes a reproachful noise, and wriggles back. “No, no,” he says, impatiently, “leave it, come here.”

 

Wallace obeys, as though led by a leash. He straddles the slender curve of Treavor’s hips, lets Treavor run clumsy fingers over his barreled chest, and broad arms.

 

“You’re beastly,” says Treavor; Wallace is. “Kiss me,” says Treavor; Wallace does.

 

He tastes of rum, of ash. His lips are swollen when they part, and his eyes are dark, black in the bedroom shadows. Ethereal, in the pale blue flicker of the oil lamp. Otherworldly.

 

“What would I do without you,” Treavor says, one hand curled tight in Wallace’s hair, breathing out the words against the bristles of Wallace’s wide chin. “What would you do without me?”

 

The answer strikes hard, like a punch to the gut. No one else will ever want him the way Treavor does, he realizes, he cannot imagine being used by anyone else. He had been lost, before Treavor. He will be lost again, after him.

 

There is nothing for him but this.

 

He does not say it aloud but Treavor must read it in the stiff set of his shoulders, and hear it in the way he leaves the question hanging, unanswered.

 

“We’re a right mess,” Treavor says, softly. “Aren’t we. Well, let’s not think on it, Wallace. Not until we have to.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> here i am on [tumblr](http://bygoneboy.tumblr.com)


End file.
